by Bob Mayer
"How does everyone feel about the MRA?" Boomer asked.
Vasquez barked a short laugh. "Sir, you want to get in a fight, you mention those three letters around anyone in uniform. When it was the gays in the military thing a couple of years ago there were still a lot of people who actually didn't give a shit. Live and let live they thought. But there's enough bullshit in the MRA that everyone's got something to be ragged off about, including the total drop of the gay unacceptability thing."
"You got the Marines about ready to bust a gut 'cause of the part that wants to integrate the Corps into the Army. Same with all the pilots being pissed about being made into one branch. You name the person and the act affects them somehow. We been downsizing and cutting back for years now, and now they hit us with this! Those fucking civilians in Washington don't understand."
Boomer settled back in the bucket seat and watched the countryside as Vasquez bitched on about the act, her language quite worthy of any infantry sergeant. He hadn't been too worried about the act himself, but now he wondered if he ought to be. Even with all the cuts coming in the Army he was pretty confident that Delta and Special Operations overall would not be cut. No matter what the world situation or level of "peace," Special Operations always had a real world job to do, as evidenced by his most recent missions in the Ukraine.
He had heard some rumbles that the Joint Chiefs of Staff were not keen on keeping Special Operations forces up to strength while having to cut their own prized Army divisions, aircraft carrier groups, and Air Force squadrons. Boomer had been exposed to the regular Army's distaste for Special Forces from the moment his infantry battalion commander had told him his Army career was over when Boomer filed a 4187 form requesting Special Forces training in 1983.
In those days Special Forces was truly a bastard stepchild. There was no Special Forces branch and any officer taking an assignment in the Green Berets threw his "career track" off the beaten path. In 1987, when Special Forces had finally been recognized as a separate branch by the Army, after great pressure from Congress, Boomer had been proud to pin on the crossed arrows that adorned the right collar of his battle dress uniform. In fact, nearly every major reform in favor of Special Operations Forces had required the passage of a law by Congress, which in turn had to be crammed down the throats of the reluctant conventional military leaders.
The other issue in the MRA that was causing a great amount of consternation was the proposal to basically eliminate the three service academies by converting them into one-year officer basic schools for all officers upon commissioning from ROTC or OCS programs. Boomer could well imagine the ulcers that was causing among most of his fellow graduates of West Point. He himself wasn't too sure it was a bad idea, considering the discrepancy in cost between a West Point graduate and an ROTC officer, and the small, if any, difference between the two once they were in the Army.
The Academy had been founded when there was no other way to produce quality regular Army officers. Today that wasn't the case. Of course, Boomer also had to admit that he would have had a most difficult time getting a college education if he had not been able to attend the Academy. In the years since graduation, though, Boomer realized more and more that he had paid for his four-year education in a currency more valuable than coin. He had paid with some of his heart and soul. He could see that most clearly when he looked at others his own age who had attended a "regular" college.
Vasquez took an exit off the highway and was waved through the gate to Fort Shafter by an MP. A sign just inside warned all visitors that they were subject to search and that they had basically surrendered most of the basic rights guaranteed by the Constitution simply by crossing the invisible line separating the state of Hawaii from federal land.
A military post is a world unto itself and basically self-contained. Boomer had once been on temporary duty (TDY) at a remote base in Korea and had met people who had never been outside the gate into the Korean community other than passing through on a military transport bus. They lived for an entire year within the fence surrounding the compound. Military people were a curious combination of world-traveler—even the lowest ranking person usually having lived overseas—and xenophobic isolationist. It was not unusual for the highest-ranking general to have no idea what it meant to live in a community with people of different beliefs and occupations or have to deal with such civilian matters as having to pay health insurance.
Boomer took in Fort Shafter, correlating it to the map he had casually studied on the plane coming in. The major populated area of Oahu stretched from Diamond Head on the southeast corner of the Island, west along Waikiki and downtown Honolulu, to the International Airport and Hickam Field, Pearl Harbor, to finally Barbers Point Naval Air Station at the southwest corner of the Island. Fort Shafter was on the north side of Highway H1 which ran along all those points. The fort overlooked the airport and Pearl Harbor, with an excellent view of downtown Honolulu to the left. Shafter was one of dozens of military posts scattered about the Island and housed the Army's Western Command.
"I'll take you to the guest house, sir. You can throw on a uniform and then we can head to the tunnel," she added as she glanced at Boomer's hair.
They drove up to the motel-like guest house, and Boomer quickly stored his gear and changed into a set of starched BDUs. It felt funny every time he put on a U.S. uniform after the civilian clothes and foreign uniforms he was used to in Delta. It was like changing part of his personality. He'd worn a uniform full-time from West Point in 1977 through joining Delta. He pulled a faded green beret from his bags and settled it on his head, checking himself in the mirror.
The beret was the original one he'd been issued on graduating the Special Forces Qualification Course in 1984. He'd been told several times in the course of his career to replace the worn hat with a new one, but he'd grown attached to this one. It had gone many places with him. The green cloth had that beaten, faded look that soldiers in Special Force secretly prized.
Vasquez's demeanor changed when she spotted Boomer walking out of the lobby. She noted the Special Forces Combat patch on the Major's right shoulder, and the Combat Infantry badge, Master Parachutist badge and scuba badge on his left chest. Beneath the Special Forces and Ranger tabs on Boomer's left shoulder, he wore the unit patch of the Special Operations Command (Airborne).
"You were in 5th Group during Desert Storm, sir?" she asked as they got back in the car.
"No. First of the 10th out of Tolz," he lied, automatically giving her the cover story that he'd been briefed on right after the Gulf War.
Boomer waited for the inevitable "What did you do?" but it didn't come, for which he was relieved. They were at the entrance to the tunnel in less than five minutes. Boomer looked at it with interest. A heavily vegetated lava ridge line was directly in front of them with a covered walkway leading up the side to a large vault door. Looking to his left he could see the ocean, with Honolulu off to the far left. To the right, the road ended in a housing area, behind which the mountains loomed, forming the interior of Oahu. It was a spectacular location, but it didn't appear that there were any windows in the office to enjoy the view.
"The XO will have to give you the door code, sir," Vasquez said as she punched into the numerical key pad on the side of the door. There was a loud beep and with great effort Vasquez slowly swung the door wide. "Air pressure makes it real hard to open in the mornings," she added as they stepped inside and the door swung shut on its own.
A tunnel painted pale green stretched ahead for more than a hundred feet. Vasquez led the way past wall lockers and turned right at the first set of double metal doors. A larger tunnel beckoned at a right angle to the first one. This tunnel was thirty feet across and the ceiling was curved, over twenty feet high at its peak. Desks were scattered about and the far end was walled off with glass, curtains hiding whatever was on the other side of the door in the center of the glass.
The home of the 4th TASOSC consisted of three main, parallel tunnels. Boomer was
currently in the first. It housed the TASOSC's S-l section (administrative and personnel), executive officer, and in the far end of the tunnel, separated from the others by the thick glass wall and curtains, the TASOSC commander. The middle tunnel held the TASOSC sergeant major, the communication's console, and at the far end, again walled off with glass, the TASOSC conference room. The third and most distant tunnel contained the Operations (S-3) and Intelligence (S-2) staffs. All the tunnels were connected by two side tunnels—one along the base, leading in from the vault door, and the other in the center, splitting each tunnel in half.
Vasquez led the way to a desk strewn with various papers and folders. "Sir, I got the major," she announced.
A lieutenant colonel peered up above the stacks of paper. He was small, with leathery skin stretched tight over his bones. A thin, gray crew cut gave him the indeterminate appearance of a man somewhere between an old forty and a young sixty.
"George Falk," he announced sticking his hand out, "but you can call me 'sir,' " a genuine smile indicating that he did not take the remark too seriously.
Boomer smiled in return. "Boomer Watson, sir."
"Glad to have you, Boomer. Grab a seat and I'll get you tuned in to our operation."
"See you around, sir," Vasquez said, spinning on the heel of her spit-shined jump boots and heading off to a side tunnel.
"I see you've met our resident body-builder," Falk said.
"What?" Boomer asked.
"Vasquez—she competes in body building contests," Falk said.
Boomer twisted in his seat and watched the sergeant disappear with interest. That helped explain the way she handled his duffle bag. Boomer settled down into the beat-up gray chair and returned his attention to Lieutenant Colonel Falk. Boomer watched as he rustled through a stack of papers. "Damn, I had a copy of your orders here somewhere. Got them faxed in from Bragg this morning."
Boomer slipped a copy of his orders out of the file folder he was carrying. "Here you go, sir." They were fill-in-the-blank orders, assigning him to the 4th TASOSC until further notice. Typical orders for Delta Force personnel who were often sent to strange locations to do strange jobs without much notice.
"Thanks," Falk said, glancing at them. "You're going to be with us for a while?" he asked.
"I don't know, sir."
Falk pursed his lips. "Hmm. I got a call from Jim Forster on the secure line yesterday afternoon. He asked me to take care of you. Jim and I go back a long ways."
Boomer could tell Falk was fishing for information, but he figured he couldn't tell the man anything more than Forster had.
"You're going to have to get your hair cut," Falk added. "We're not that high speed and we get quite a bit of rank coming through the tunnel. A lot of people around here get their nose out of joint about important things like haircuts and shined boots and all that," Falk said, his own disdain for the regular Army clear.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Well, glad you're here. We need the help. Forster told me to let you take it kind of easy, so I don't want to overload you. What's your area of expertise?" Falk looked at Boomer's uniform, making the size-up all Army people did upon meeting, noting badges the way a dog would sniff another upon first meeting.
"My primary is Eighteen," Boomer said. "My secondary is Thirty-nine—Operations."
Falk looked at Boomer with more interest. "Who were you with before going behind the fence?" he asked, using the euphemism among those in the know for people who went into Delta Force. The original Delta Compound at Bragg had been surrounded by a chain link fence with green strips of metal sown through it to provide some degree of protection from surveillance—thus the term that had developed for people going to work there. The new compound was bigger and had a correspondingly higher fence in a more remote area of the Fort Bragg reservation.
"I was originally branched Infantry then went SF in 'eighty-four. I was with 10th Group at Fort Devens, team leader and Battalion S-3 for a while; then the Advanced Course; then I went to 1st of the 10th at Bad Tolz in Germany, where I had another team before heading back to Bragg."
"Good, good," Falk said.
The door at the far end of the tunnel opened and a major exited. A squeaky voice calling for Colonel Falk echoed over the major's shoulder.
"Excuse me," Falk said as he quickly walked away and entered the office, shutting the door behind.
Boomer recognized the other major as a man he had gone through the Special Forces Qualification Course with, Frank Wilkerson. He looked none-too-happy at the moment. "Frank, how's it going?"
Wilkerson looked at Boomer's long hair and glanced at his nametag. He tried in vain to crack a smile of greeting. "Boomer Watson, long time no-see."
The beret stuffed in Wilkerson's pants cargo pocket had a yellow tab sewn behind the gold major's leaf—another message that could be read by those in the fraternity. "Where are you assigned in 1st Group?" Boomer asked. "Fort Lewis or Okinawa?"
"Okie," Wilkerson said shortly. "Or perhaps it's better to say I was."
"What do you do?" Boomer asked.
Wilkerson's jaw tightened. "I was the commander of A Company, 1st Battalion."
"You just changed command?" Boomer asked innocently.
"No, I was just relieved two days ago."
Boomer had regretted his question as soon as he had asked it. Wilkerson's entire demeanor and tone had suggested bad news. Relief from command was an instant career-killer—about the worst thing that could happen to an officer short of death in combat, and there were many that probably would prefer the latter—at least it was honorable. Boomer was surprised: Wilkerson had been a squared-away and conscientious officer at the Q Course. To get relieved of command in peacetime usually required some gross violation of military regulations.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Wilkerson jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the office he had just left. "It's bad enough I have to go back to Fort Lewis and get reamed out by the Group Commander when I get there, but this shithead has to have me come through here and stick his two cents in and he's not even in the chain of command."
"Who's that?" Boomer asked.
"The CO here—Colonel Coulder. He's a class-one prima donna. Thinks he's actually in charge of something instead of simply being a beans and bullets guy." Wilkerson slumped down in the chair Boomer had just vacated. "What the hell are you doing here anyway? I've never seen you here before and I come through here pretty often."
"I just got in today for some special work." Boomer replied vaguely, knowing that Wilkerson was trying to make sense of his non-regulation hair and the Special Operations patch on his shoulder.
"Beefing up for the President's visit?" Wilkerson asked, almost to himself. "Everyone's running scared after the incident in Turkey with the nuke." He looked up, his thoughts returning to his own situation. "Well, I guess I won't even be able to stay in the Reserves after this. My fucking career is over."
"What happened?" Boomer asked.
Wilkerson glanced around, making sure no one else was in earshot. "It was bullshit, man. Pure bullshit. I was set up."
"Set up?"
"I was assigned to take part in a command post exercise in Korea back in October. I got in-country, and they gave me my copies of the operations orders and playbook and all that other classified stuff. I had it in a briefcase. Well, I was on South Post Yongsan and I stopped at the Burger King there to get something to eat before heading down to Taegu. I wasn't in the place more than two minutes, and someone popped out the lock on the trunk and took the briefcase. Turns out it was CID. It was all a set-up. They nailed my ass for a security violation."
Boomer found it hard to generate sympathy. Being a courier for classified material meant never letting it out of your sight. "It was probably some sort of counterintelligence thing, Wilk. They do that stuff a lot in Korea. It's a hot zone."
"I know it's a hot zone," Wilkerson hissed. "And I know that I fucked up by leaving the shit in the car, but I'm telling
you it was deliberately set up to get me relieved. I was deliberately sent on that CPX to get me out of the way in the first place."
"Who would have done that?"
"I don't know, but there's some weird shit going on. I've had unusually high turnover in my company and the sergeant major and battalion commander have been stacking two of my teams—assigning people directly to ODAs while I was deployed. When I complained, they sent me on the mission to Korea." Wilkerson took another look around, then leaned forward. "You know what my company is?"
Boomer frowned. "What do you mean 'what it is?' It's a Special Forces company."
"Yeah, but do you know what our primary mission is?"
Boomer shrugged, pretending to be uncertain about what his old comrade was talking about. "I don't know. You guys out of Okie are targeted for Southeast Asia right?"
"B and C Companies are." Wilkerson's voice dropped to a whisper. "A Company is the regional counter-terrorist reaction force. Just like Det A in Berlin was over in Europe. We work with Delta all the time. We're the first response guys for half the fucking world if any high-speed shit goes down. And somebody wanted my ass out of that command."
Boomer had known exactly what A Company, 1st Battalion was. Part of the "secret" game, though, was to never let on that you knew anything. Boomer preferred to play at being stupid and to profess ignorance rather than try to do half-truths and explain what couldn't be talked about. He'd never worked with A-1/1, but he knew others in his squadron of Delta had. A-l/l's job was to stabilize a threat situation in the Pacific until Delta could arrive on scene to deal with it. The five teams in the company were specially trained and equipped for the mission.